Just a Bit Wrong (Straight Guys 4)

“They’re weird blue,” Hardaway said, making Tristan’s scowl deepen. He glanced at Tristan’s groin. “I told you to go inside and sit down.”

“And I told you I’m fine here,” Tristan said. He wasn’t being entirely truthful. His groin muscles were sore and his discomfort was growing every time he shifted even a little, but he’d be damned if he admitted it and proved this insufferable prick right.

“If you say so,” Hardaway said, shrugging. Nodding to Lydia, who was watching them curiously, Hardaway stalked away.

Tristan frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” Hardaway threw over his shoulder.

Tristan strode after him. “What? What about my injury? You can’t leave without doing your job!”

“I’ll come back when you stop being a baby and actually let me do my job. I work with adults.”

“I didn’t say you could go,” Tristan hissed out, anger quickening his strides. What a presumptuous son of a bitch. “If I don’t let you order me around, it doesn’t mean you can just ditch the job you’re paid for—Ow!” Tristan grabbed his upper thigh and came to a halt, swearing elaborately as a sharp, agonizing pain shot through his leg. He fell to one knee, cursing.

Hardaway was by his side immediately. “I fucking told you. You should be resting a groin injury, not putting it under unnecessary stress.”

“Shut up,” Tristan said, hissing as he tried to get onto his feet. Tried and failed. He made another attempt to stand up and whimpered.

Hardaway sighed. “For fuck’s sake,” he said before leaning down and scooping him into his arms. He threw Tristan over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and headed toward the house.

“Put me down,” Tristan said, flushing with humiliation. “I can walk.”

Hardaway just snorted at that.

“Lead the way,” he told Lydia. “His bedroom.”

“This way,” she said, walking ahead. At least she wasn’t snickering at his expense again.

By the time they reached the bedroom, Tristan’s lip was bloody; he had been biting it to keep himself from making any noise. God, it hurt.

He was relieved and a little surprised when Hardaway gently eased him onto the bed: he had expected him to be rough.

When Hardaway reached for the waistband of Tristan’s sweatpants, Tristan grabbed his hand. “What are you doing?”

The guy gave him a weird look. “My job. I need to examine your groin.”

Feeling silly, Tristan nodded reluctantly and told Lydia, “Out.”

“Bring me an ice pack, a wet towel, and bandages,” Hardaway told her.

She nodded and hurried out of the room.

Tristan looked at the ceiling while Hardaway pulled his sweatpants off, leaving him only in his briefs. Strong fingers touched his thighs, then his lower stomach and groin. Tristan grimaced. It didn’t exactly feel pleasant. “Well?”

“It’s been about ten days since you got injured, right?” Hardaway said.

“Yeah.”

“The pain should have subsided by now,” Hardaway said, sounding a little annoyed. “My presence here is pretty much pointless if we can’t start doing massages and exercises, and we can’t do it during the initial acute phase. It should have been over by now. Did you follow Jared’s instructions?”

Tristan shrugged. “More or less.”

“More or less?” Hardaway repeated.

“I’m not the type to sit still and twiddle my thumbs all day,” Tristan said, still looking at the ceiling.

Hardaway took a deep breath and breathed out audibly.

Tristan suppressed a smile. Driving people crazy was one of his favorite things in the world.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Hardaway said.

Tristan met his eyes. “What?” he said, weirdly conscious of Hardaway’s hands on his thighs.

“Jared told me you wanted to return to the pitch as soon as possible,” Hardaway said. “Thanks to your own recklessness and stubbornness, you made your injury worse. You can’t start training until the pain is mostly gone. You can only blame yourself if you miss the World Cup.”

Tristan’s lips thinned.

Lydia returned to the room and handed Hardaway what he had requested before leaving again. Silently, Hardaway sat down beside him, wrapped the ice pack in a wet towel, and pressed it firmly against Tristan’s groin. “Do you now understand how stupid you’ve been?”

“I really don’t like your attitude,” Tristan replied.

Hardaway smiled. He was one of those people whose face didn’t soften much with a smile. “Get used to it. I don’t handle my patients with kid gloves.”

Tristan only glowered at him.

For a few long minutes, there was only silence as they regarded each other. It was making Tristan f??l a bit funny, but h? refused to look away first.

Minutes later, Hardaway was the one who eventually did. He removed the ice pack and started wrapping the elastic bandage around his thigh. Passing the bandage around the back of Tristan’s waist, he secured it.

“Now you must rest,” Hardaway said, removing his hands. “And when I say rest, I mean it. Also, ice three times a day for fifteen minutes.”

Tristan said nothing.

“Understood?” Hardaway said, in a tone that brooked no argument.